Let’s face it, there’s nothing more romantic than a home cooked meal and nothing more unromantic than eating over-priced pre-fixe menus in crowded restaurants. Here are some of my favorite things to make for my sweetie on Valentine’s Day (or any day.)

The first time I ate homemade fried rice I was in awe. A college friend whipped it up in her tiny kitchen for a group of hungry youths and I was mesmerized not just because I thought it was difficult to make, but because it tasted so much better than any fried rice I’d encountered in my two decades of life. Granted, I grew up in Vermont; a place probably not best known for its fried rice. But in any case, this college dorm version was far more delicious than the super greasy, overly salty, soy-saucy “Eggroll House” kind.

That particular friend had grown up making fried rice with her mom the way I grew up making buttermilk pancakes with maple syrup with mine. It was in her wheelhouse and it was not in mine. For this reason, I’d never attempted it until now. While recently dog-sitting for a friend, I noticed she had left me a note about some “old rice” she’d left in the fridge specifically for me to make fried rice. I had no choice. It was time to face my fears.

It turns out, we should always face our fears. At least when it comes to cooking. Because this turned out so scrumptious that I regretted waiting so long to make it and decided to blog about it so as not to forget the recipe. I contemplated if it would be okay to make fried rice for dinner two, three, four maybe even five nights in a row as it was all I wanted to think about eating forevermore.

The best part about this recipe: it’s a throw together whatever’s in the fridge, super cheap weeknight meal. Which, in my opinion are always the best kind. Just don’t wait another decade to make it.

Enjoy!

Heather

Chicken and Bacon Fried Rice

Serves 2

6 boneless, skinless chicken thighs

5 cloves garlic, (2 minced, 3 crushed)

1/4 cup low-sodium soy sauce

2 tablespoons brown sugar

8 scallions, thinly sliced

1/4 cup plus 1tablespoon vegetable oil

4 large eggs

2 thick-cut slices applewood smoked bacon, thinly sliced

1 small white onion, chopped

1 large carrot, diced

3 cups cooked white rice

kosher salt and cracked black pepper, to taste

Place the chicken thighs in a sealable plastic bag. Using a meat-mallet, pound to 1/2 thickness. Place the crushed garlic, soy sauce, brown sugar, a small handful of sliced scallions and 1 tablespoon vegetable oil to the bag. Seal the bag and give it a shake to coat all of the chicken. Set aside to marinate. Before cooking remove two of the thighs from the bag and cut into 1-inch cubes.

In a large skillet, heat 2 tablespoon oil over hight heat. Season the whole chicken thighs generously with salt and pepper. Using tongs, place them in the hot skillet and cook until dark brown on each side and cooked through, about 3 minutes per side.

In large cast-iron skillet heat 2 tablespoons oil over medium heat. Crack the eggs into a separate bowl and then add them to the skillet. Using a rubber spatula move the eggs around so they become lightly scrambled. When the eggs are cooked but still a little runny, remove them from the skillet and set aside.

Turn the heat up to high and add the bacon to the pan. When the fat begins to render, add the cubed chicken. onion and carrot. Cook, stirring often for about 4-5 minutes. When the onion begins to soften and become translucent and the chicken is cooked through, turn the heat down to medium and add the minced garlic. Cook for one minute, stirring constantly before adding the cooked rice and remaining sliced scallions. Stir the rice to heat it and coat it with all of the flavors in the pan. Add the egg and stir to incorporate it into the fried rice.

When you live in Los Angeles, you end up talking about living in Los Angeles a lot. I have begun many sentences with “Only in LA…” when discussing the traffic, the weather, the drought, the pending doom of an earthquake and the expensive real estate. It’s all very exciting, as if we are on some special island separated from the rest of the world where our daily lives are so interesting and unique that we discuss the ins and outs of freeway routes, celebrity sightings, water conservation techniques and preferred farmers markets on a regular basis.

One of my all-time favorite “Only in LA” moments occurred recently while enjoying a backyard barbecue at some friends’ east side home. I looked up to see the most resplendent avocado tree towering over us and hundreds of avocados dangling about. Our friends explained that they had been house hunting for months, but when they beheld the magnificent tree they knew it was the right home. The tree was so splendid that the wizened tree doctor they hired after moving in graciously thanked them, “Thank you for letting me touch your tree, I would be happy to come back and touch your tree any time.”

I could not think of a better reason to buy a house. Needless to say, I left that barbecue with a canvas bag so full of avocados I could hardly lift it. For a week or two the hard green fruits sat in a bowl on my kitchen counter. Though unready to eat, I felt comfort knowing they were there. This bounty ensured survival should that earthquake hit.

Eventually they ripened and I discovered that avocados are impossible to tire of. They’re good on everything: piled on toast and eggs for breakfast, slathered on sandwiches, salads or chicken. But out of fear of not making my way through all of them before passing their prime, I whipped up this easy and delicious avocado dressing to be tossed with greens, vegetables and more avocados, obviously.

When I was a little girl my family moved to Texas for two years. My father was an engineer for IBM, which I later came to realize stood for “I’ve Been Moved” rather than “International Business Machines.” We moved five time before I entered Kindergarten. The normal reaction to this is not positive. “How terrible to uproot families!” Friends of my parents would say. But I remember those years as exciting adventures that the Platt family embraced with nothing short of enthusiasm. We built a pool to entertain ourselves (and survive the 110 degree summers). It was the mid 1980s so my dad bought a shiny red Mazda RX-7 sports car, the first car to have a “compact disc player,” pop-up headlights, and vanity plates that read “Platt” to match the flashiness of the setting and the era. We would speed to Baskins Robbins in that car, making sharp turns and blasting Whitney Houston’s latest album. I was four and would sit in the passenger seat (pre-car seat regulations I guess) and my dad would let me shift the gears as the shiny red car sped up and slowed down. Texas was awesome. But one of the many things our stint in Austin exposed our quintet of rural Vermonters to, in addition to big hair and shiny cars, was spicy food. My brother and sister and I were so fascinated by it that we would gather with our next door neighbor and have spicy salsa eating contests. Whoever could withstand the most heat won. The native Texans always triumphed. And though my parents never really developed a love, much less any tolerance for spice; my brother and sister and I took it with us for life. Harissa has nothing to do with Texas…except that it’s supposed to be spicy. And for those who never broke in their spice tolerance with salsa eating contests, it’s easily adjusted for the faint-of-spice, use less cayenne and few jalapeños. Harissa is a Tunisian condiment that is good on EVERYTHING. I love brushing it onto grilled chicken thighs. It’s great on roasted carrots. Serve it with meat, fish, rice or couscous. Your dinner guests will become obsessed and the conversation at the table will be about nothing but the creamy spicy red sauce. After a recent dinner party my friend sent me a text that read, “Harissa is my new ketchup.” That’s quite an upgrade if you ask me. Enjoy! Heather

“Isn’t it funny how we all remember Vermont?” Said Nana into the land line phone in her nursing home apartment.

I’d called her to tell her that her famous Limpa Bread recipe and the guidance she’d given me over the phone the day before had lead to the most perfect batch yet. So perfect that two entire loaves of the crusty, soft, brown goodness seemed to have already disappeared from our countertop. Mysterious, I know.

Nana was pleased. “Mmmm.” She said, imagining she could taste it too. “It’s the best warm, with butter…” she specified trailing off in thought into the fantasy of Limpa deliciousness. And then it occurred to me. That’s where this came from. This utter obsession with achieving maximum deliciousness, the utmost joy from watching someone happily devour the food you made. I got that from Nana.

“Oh no, I never bothered with any recipes at the restrunt.” She answered after I inquired about the menu items at her and my late-grandfather’s Vermont eatery.

“How did you make everything?” I was blown away. The woman owned, managed and cooked, from scratch with apparently no guidance, everything on the menu at “Bischoff’s Restaurant.” In the 1940s and 50s, hungry skiers and locals alike piled into cozy wooden benches to enjoy her cooking.

“I just made it and tasted as I went along.” She said matter-of-factly. “Have you ever made my split pea soup? I wrote it down for you somewhere.” I will get that recipe as soon as possible. But until then, this Vermont Cheddar soup will have to do. And it does.